


Play Me

by veritas_st



Category: Suits (US TV)
Genre: Harvey plays the saxophone, Jazz Club AU, M/M, Mike plays the piano, not lawyers, pretty woman movie quotes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 18:26:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13013595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veritas_st/pseuds/veritas_st
Summary: Happy Christmas jonibeloni!  I hope you like it.“Harvey,” the man says and Mike removes his hands from the keys.“Mike,” he answers and Harvey nods once and repeats Mike’s name quietly, like he’s trying the sound of it out in his mouth.“I should be going,” Mike hooks his thumb over his shoulder, “Ben will want to be closing up.”  The barman, as if on cue, slams the cash register closed.  Harvey blinks and Mike wants to run his hand through his hair.“You should play with us one day,” he says and Mike nods, shoves his hands into his pockets.“Sure,” it’s non committal and Mike can hear the hesitation in his voice as Harvey raises an eyebrow like he can read Mike’s mind.  “Nice to meet you.”“You too, Mike.”





	Play Me

Mike was 17 when he discovered he could play the piano. 

It was totally by accident as well. Another school counsellor sending him to yet another grief counsellor (“ _You need to process your parents death, Michael_ ”) and he’d found himself sitting in a too white house on the edge of town with the sound of sobbing coming from the room in front of him and a grand piano behind him. He’d run his fingers over the keys, pressing one, then another. Group music lessons from school a distant memory but a memory nevertheless so the knowledge of middle C had stayed with him and he’d sat, opened the sheet music and pressed his fingers to the keys tentatively.

It was a simple variation on Pachelbel's _Cannon in D_ and Mike had felt the music flow through him.

That’s where the counsellor had found him, fingers pressed to the keys, the sound from the piano slowly fading and Mike had felt the need to learn and absorb everything he could. 

“Keep coming to see me and I’ll let you play as often as you want,” the counsellor had said and Mike had agreed. 

By the time he was 21, Mike had started going to any music club he could get into. Jazz clubs were his favourite. The stereotypical dark lighting, hard liquor and the smell of them, almost as if the clubs had the sense memory of when smoking was allowed inside, the smell of cigarettes, cigars and pipes clinging to the slightly sticky carpets, hanging from the walls and the lights. Mike loved them, loved that he could sit in the shadows, feeling the music in his bones, not talk to anyone, drink until his head cleared.

He’s 26 when he first sees the saxophonist, when he first notices the fingers on the keys, lips around the mouthpiece. When he first notices the way he shuts his eyes and moves to the music. Mike’s buzzed from the cheapest whiskey in the place, still a little high from the joint earlier but he can practically imagine those fingers on him, playing him just right. As if his x-rated thoughts are being broadcasted loud and clear across the dark club, the saxophonist looks directly at Mike. He holds his gaze for a few seconds, eyes unreadable across the distance between them and closes his eyes again and for some inexplicable reason Mike’s left shaken, feeling like something vital has passed between them. 

The band continues, and Mike forgets the strange eye contact from the saxophonist, nursing his whiskey, fingers tracing over the rim of the glass as he sinks lower in his seat. 

The barman knows him and lets him hang around as they close up, tidying up behind the bar as Mike steps onto the stage and runs his fingers over the piano keys. It’s been awhile since he played but muscle memory and his brain remembers exactly what it’s doing as he plays Pachelbel’s Cannon again, taking him back to all those years ago. He’s added his own flair to it, different chords that works with the beautiful simplicity of the music, his brain conjuring up the image of the original sheet music on the white grand piano in his counsellors house. He plays, not noticing the silhouette of the man leaning against the side of the stage, hat tipped low on his head, arms crossed. Mike plays and doesn’t notice the man take a step onto the stage. He only notices when the man drops his hat onto the top of the piano. Mike stops playing and looks up. 

“Carry on,” the man says and Mike blinks at him. It’s the saxophonist from earlier and Mike can feel his cheeks flame. He’s glad for the dim lighting of the bar. He jumps when the barman drops a glass and raises a hand in apology, shrugging lightly and the man sighs out a small laugh, sitting next to Mike on the large piano stool. He nods his head, raises his eyebrows and looks at the piano expectantly. Mike frowns lightly but rests his fingers on the keys, thinking for a second. 

“What do you want?” Mike asks and the man shrugs, plays a few notes on the piano himself and looks at Mike. 

“What can you play?” 

“Give me the sheet music and I can play anything,” Mike answers truthfully and the man raises an eyebrow again, waving upwards with his hand as he stands slightly. Mike stands as well and he opens the seat of the stool, rifles through a few sheets and pulls one out, settles it on the music stand in front of Mike. Mike studies it for a second. It’s handwritten and even in the dim lighting Mike can see the eraser marks, the notes littered in the margins and he runs his fingers over the lines before resting them back on the keys. He starts tentatively, a few notes, a brief pause, and then he carries on, getting into the rhythm. He’s a few lines in when the man next to him joins in, taking the high part, his fingers playing across the keys and Mike smiles briefly at him. They play well together, almost instinctively and Mike doesn’t want the song to end. It’s almost fast paced, with parts that go slow, the tempo never really staying the same, and it almost makes Mike dizzy. It stops with Mike right hand far over to the right on the keys, the man’s over to the left and his skin burns where their bare forearms touch. 

“Harvey,” the man says and Mike removes his hands from the keys. 

“Mike,” he answers and Harvey nods once and repeats Mike’s name quietly, like he’s trying the sound of it out in his mouth. 

“I should be going,” Mike hooks his thumb over his shoulder, “Ben will want to be closing up.” The barman, as if on cue, slams the cash register closed. Harvey blinks and Mike wants to run his hand through his hair. 

“You should play with us one day,” he says and Mike nods, shoves his hands into his pockets. 

“Sure,” it’s non committal and Mike can hear the hesitation in his voice as Harvey raises an eyebrow like he can read Mike’s mind. “Nice to meet you.” 

“You too, Mike.” 

Mike likes the way his name sounds from Harvey and spends the rest of the night remembering it and if he wakes up half hard with the memory of his name from Harvey’s mouth well that’s between him and his pillow. 

It’s weeks before Mike can work up the courage to go back and he doesn’t know why but he’s nervous as he walks through the doors to see Harvey playing on stage. He’s grinning at someone just before he puts the mouthpiece of his sax back into his mouth and his fingers fly over the keys. And once again Mike’s struck with the image of those deft fingers playing Mike, skipping over skin, slotting between Mike’s ribs. He swallows and finds a booth, sinks low in his seat and lets the music filter in between his thoughts. He’s so caught up in the never ending tune that he doesn’t notice Harvey slipping into the booth next to him until Harvey’s thigh is a line of heat against his own. 

“In a world of your own?” Mike looks towards the stage and back to Harvey questioningly. He huffs out a laugh, “the song changed.” 

“I didn’t notice,” Mike replies and wonders why his hands are shaking. 

“You came back,” Harvey says, as Ben slides two glasses of whiskey into the table, “you want to play?” There’s something else in Harvey’s words that Mike can’t decipher but runs his finger around the rim of the glass instead of answering. A burst of applause from the audience gives Mike the time to gather a response from the words swirling in his head. 

“I want to play,” he says and it’s succinct, but it’s said with meaning, looking Harvey directly in the eyes and Harvey narrows his own eyes slightly in amusement, like he gets exactly what Mike’s trying to say even if Mike’s not sure himself. This man, sitting next to him, is affecting Mike in a way that no stranger ever has and Mike can’t figure out why. He knows nothing about him apart from his name, but Mike wants to know everything. To crack him open and sift through the pieces. Harvey takes a sip of his whiskey, eyes closing briefly as he swallows and it’s just a short moment of perfect bliss that Mike wants to capture it, wants to draw it on paper and frame it. Harvey sets his glass down and looks at him. 

“Why do I get the feeling there’s a lot going on in there?” He asks, tapping Mike lightly on the temple.

“You have no idea,” Mike mutters in response and wants Harvey to touch him more. Harvey quirks a half smile at one corner of his mouth and Mike has never been more attracted to anyone in his life. 

“Will you play with me again later?” Harvey asks and there’s a hint of hope in his voice that Mike couldn’t say no to even if he wanted to. He nods and Harvey leans forward. “Good boy.” He whispers the words right into Mike’s ear making Mike shiver, Harvey’s breath hot against his skin. Harvey pushes himself out of the booth, throws Mike a brief wink over his shoulder as he wanders back to the stage. 

He watches Harvey for the rest of the night, he’s got a presence on the stage like nothing Mike’s ever seen before. It’s like he takes up the whole space, leaving no room for anyone else and Mike can’t take his eyes off him. Every now and then Harvey looks across the darkness at him, Mike knows he can’t see him from the stage but Harvey looks anyway, gaze heated and pointed, towards where he knows Mike is. Mike feels laid bare by the scrutiny and shifts, fingers playing against the side of his glass. 

Harvey finds him in the same place later, once everyone has filtered out, leaving the bar in its natural, empty state. He slides into the booth next to Mike and crowds in close to him like he can’t stop himself. His fingers play against Mike’s jawline and Mike wants to bare his throat and give Harvey everything. 

“I don’t know what it is about you,” Harvey mutters, his fingers moving backwards, to curl around the back of Mike’s neck, his thumb pressing in lightly under Mike’s chin. Mike isn't usually one for strangers touching him, even his own tiny family, even Trevor didn’t touch him that much but he’s letting Harvey touch him. For some reason he can’t put his finger on, he’s lifting his head and giving Harvey more skin to touch. Harvey leans forward, brushing his lips over Mike’s. “Is this ok?” 

Yes it’s ok, Mike wants to say, give me everything you’ve got, take what you want. But he can’t find any words other than “yes” breathed out like a plea. 

Harvey kisses him like Mike’s a treasure, gentle at first, his fingers still at the back of Mike’s neck, but his thumb presses into the soft skin under his chin and it’s a reminder of the inexplicable, sudden power Harvey has over him right now. In complete contrast to his gentle mouth. 

Harvey pulls away, licking at his bottom lip and Mike wants to kiss him again but he can’t move. 

“What is it about you?” He’s looking at Mike like he’s a math problem needed to be solved, eyes slightly narrowed, like Harvey’s as affected by this as Mike is. 

“What is it about _you_?” Mike counters, pushing the words out from his dry throat. Harvey huffs out a laugh and slides out of the booth. He holds his hand out to Mike. 

“Come play with me.” 

The piano stool still holds a little heat from earlier and Mike rests his fingers on the cool piano keys. Harvey shuffles some sheet music and places a piece on the music stand. Mike squints at it. It’s more complicated that the last one they played together, notes skipping across the page in an intricate pattern that Mike wants to trace across Harvey’ back instead of the keys. He clears his throat and plays the first couple of notes. He sees Harvey shakes his head a little and stops. Harvey walks behind Mike and slides his hands down Mike’s arms. 

“More…” he says, “hmm...free. Looser.” His fingers slide over Mike’s, his palms hot on the backs of Mike’s hands. His breath is warm in Mike’s ear and Mike leans back into him. “Imagine you’re dealing with a...skittish animal,” Harvey lets him go all of a sudden and steps back and Mike sways but flexes out his fingers and tries again. Harvey sits on the stool next to him and there’s a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth when Mike spares a quick glance at him. Mike continues to play, fingers skipping over the keys, tripping a little at the end of the page when Harvey expertly turns it. 

There’s no doubt it’s a beautiful piece of music, the skill of whoever wrote it is evident in the way it trips and falls, each line seemingly standalone but flowing perfectly with the next, and the one before it and Mike pauses when he reaches the end, the vibrations still running through the piano, as the notes fade. 

He wants to kiss Harvey and Harvey’s looking at him like he’s waiting for Mike to make the first move this time. Mike swallows and leans forward to press his lips to Harvey’s, the music and the dim lighting of the club pushing him forward. Harvey curls a hand around the top of Mike’s arm, fingers digging in, and kisses Mike back. He kisses Mike like he plays the saxophone, with intent, skill and a hint of playfulness, and Mike kisses him back with the same intent, inching closer to him. Harvey runs his mouth across Mike’s jawline, pulls his earlobe into his mouth. 

“As much as I want to fuck you on this piano,” Mike shudders at the warm breath in his ear, “I have a bed upstairs.” Mike pulls away and blinks at him. It’s not often Mike’s happy to fall into bed with someone he doesn’t know, he can count on one hand the number of times he’s done it, but there’s something about Harvey, a look in his eyes, the feel of his hand on Mike’s arm, something that’s telling Mike to rip up his own rule book. 

Mike swallows, pushes down his nerves and manages a grin at Harvey. 

“So you’re saying you don’t want to re-enact Pretty Woman?” Harvey huffs out a surprised laugh and shakes his head. 

“Are you Julia Roberts in this scenario?” Harvey raises one eyebrow and Mike feels something shift at the change in conversation, the lift in the mood from heavy and meaningful to light and easy. 

“Does that make me a prostitute?” He says and Harvey laughs again, a bark of noise that makes something in Mike’s chest warm. He looks at Mike and his face sobers suddenly. 

“Will you come upstairs with me?” 

“Baby, I’m gonna treat you so nice, you’re never gonna wanna let me go,” Harvey laughs again and stands, holding his hand out for Mike. Mike takes it and stands himself as Harvey tugs him close and kisses him, hard, brief and full of promise. 

“I’ll hold you to that,” Harvey mutters against Mike’s lips.

Mike’s not surprised that Harvey leads him behind the stage and through a door marked with a prominent “Private” sign, up some narrow stairs to the apartment above the club. He’s not surprised that Harvey mutters something about owning it when Mike raises an eyebrow. He’s not even surprised at the pictures adorning the walls of famous Jazz musicians, some with Harvey in the photos, some with an older man who has a look of Harvey around his eyes, some with a small boy. Mike runs his fingers over one and looks at Harvey, who nods once and hands Mike a tumbler of whiskey taking the photo from Mike’s hands. 

“I was 5,” he says by way of explanation as Mike picks up another photo. “Who taught you to play?” 

“I taught myself,” Mike says and ignores Harvey’s questioning glance. “I tried it once and found out I could,” he shrugs, trying not to sound as arrogant as some people think he is. 

“Natural talent,” Harvey answers like he gets Mike and Mike looks at him. “You tried, figured out you could and what? Taught yourself to sight read handwritten music?” 

“Pretty much,” Mike shrugs again and Harvey shakes his head.

“One day you’re going to tell me your story,” he says and Mike’s stomach hurts, in a good way, at the promise of ‘one day’. 

“Not much to tell,” Mike says and Harvey takes the glass from his hand and tugs him closer. 

“I’ll be the judge of that. Now…” Harvey presses his mouth to Mike’s. He tastes of whiskey and Mike moans into his mouth. There isn’t much talking after that, Harvey’s hand flat against Mike’s back as he guides him through the small apartment, his mouth firmly attached to Mike’s. Mike huffs out a laugh against Harvey’s lips when his back hits a wall and Harvey grunts in frustration, his hands pushing their way into Mike’s pants. 

“You didn’t want to have sex on a piano, but you’re happy with against a wall?” Mike asks, his head hitting the wall behind him as Harvey curls his fingers around his dick. Harvey’s mouth is against his throat. 

“Maybe,” Harvey’s stubble grates against the skin on Mike’s throat, moving down to the hollow at the base of his neck, his fingers twisting around Mike. Mike groans again and pushes his hips towards Harvey.

“As much as I’m enjoying this,” Mike says, letting his own fingers play against the skin on Harvey’s shoulders. Harvey lifts his head from Mike’s throat, and blinks, his hand still twisting around Mike and Mike can already feel his orgams building in the pit of his stomach. “You said something about a bed, which means horizontal...and naked.” Harvey grins, a brief flash of brilliance and pulls his hand from Mike’s pants. He hooks a finger at Mike and Mike gets the feeling that he’s suddenly well and truly done for. 

Harvey’s bedroom is small, but there’s a generous bed in the middle of it, and Mike finds himself being pushed flat against it, Harvey crawling up over his body, pressing his mouth to any bits of skin he can find. Mike wraps a leg around Harvey, tugs him down at the same time as he surges upwards and they both groan. 

Harvey makes light work of Mike’s clothes, his fingertips popping buttons open, splaying out between Mike’s ribs, just like Mike imagined the first time he saw Harvey. There’s a look on Harvey’s face that Mike can’t decipher, a focused look that feels like electricity when he locks eyes with Mike, his thumbs pressed into the curve of Mike’s hips. Mike realises, with a sudden, gut wrenching clarity that not only is he naked, but he’s laid bare to Harvey’s gaze.

Without breaking eye contact, Harvey shoulders out of his shirt and drops it to the side. He’s towering over Mike and Mike can’t breathe. 

“Ok?” Mike can only manage a nod in answer as Harvey curls his fingers around his cock again, thumb running over the tip.

He twists his hand, lets Mike goes and manages to get his own pants off without taking a hand off Mike, one kept pressed to Mike’s skin like Harvey can’t get enough. He takes his hand from Mike’s skin though second later, leaving the skin burning hot but cooling rapidly as he reaches to the side and rifles through a drawer, pulling out a condom and lube. 

He pours lube onto his hands and slicks himself up, draws one of Mike’s legs upward with a hand under his knee and circles a finger around Mike’s hole. Mike whines, honest to God whines and pushes his hips down, trying to get something, anything. A hint of a smile plays against the corner of Harvey’s lips as he pushes a finger inside Mike and groans with him. He fucks Mike with his fingers until Mike’s panting and doesn’t even recognise the words spilling from his own lips and then Harvey’s fingers are gone and his lips are over Mike’s and Harvey lining himself up. 

He pushes in and Mike feels like the world pitches beneath his feet, his fingers slip and slide through the sweat on Harvey’s shoulders, but Harvey’s own fingers tap a rhythm against Mike’s skin as he curls them around Mike’s wrists over his head, presses them into the pillow. He fucks Mike with a focus that Mike has never felt before and it’s not long before Mike can feel his orgasm building again. Harvey seems to sense it and slows a little, fingers tightening around Mike’s wrists. 

“You going to come for me?” He says, voice dark against Mike’s ear and Mike groans, lifting his hips as much as he can, baring his throat to Harvey’s teeth. “Come for me.” 

And Mike does, nearly biting through his own lips, vision blurring at the edges as he comes between them. Harvey fucks him once more, twice, then comes himself, buried deep inside Mike with his mouth against Mike’s racing pulse. 

Harvey groans and pulls out from Mike’s body and Mike feels empty and cold all of a sudden as Harvey flops back onto the bed next to him. Mike pushes himself up, his muscles protesting but his mind blissfully quiet for once. 

“Stay,” Harvey mutters, sleep thickening his voice but his fingers are strong around Mike’s wrist. “I’ll make you breakfast.” 

“Does that line usually work?” Harvey raises an eyebrow over his closed eyes and tugs Mike back into bed, tucks him close. 

“It’s the first time I used it, so you tell me,” Mike huffs out a laugh but allows himself to be pulled closer and Harvey throws a leg over Mike’s. 

“It’s working.” 

“Good.” 

And Mike has to admit, with Harvey’s breath warm against the nape of his neck, that yes, it is good.


End file.
